


Passage

by bigsunglasses



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Canon, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4328121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsunglasses/pseuds/bigsunglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Released from his role as Prince by the birth of a son to the Emperor and Empress, Idra is allowed to attend university. But he can't escape his past so easily, or perhaps at all, particularly not when he meets someone who walks under a similar shadow ...</p><p>Three years post-canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Walk at Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> The worldbuilding in _The Goblin Emperor_ is more intricate and rich than some speculative fiction manages in an entire series. One of the reasons to love the book! Also one of the reasons it's very hard to write fic for! Lots of this story is my own embroidered interpretation of the larger world, but I've worked hard to be as canonical as possible, where possible. Any errors from canon are totally mine.
> 
> Thank you to egelantier and somebraveapollo for crucial quantities of hand-holding/encouragement at various points in the creation process! And thank you again to somebraveapollo for a sterling beta. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.
> 
> This fic was written for a prompt at hc_bingo (http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/), but it would be a spoiler to tell you which. ;)

The famous gardens of the University of Ashedro unfurled for miles along the northern banks of the Maratha. It was in their vast spiderweb of quiet paths that Idra sought refuge on his first evening as a student. Banis Aizhar, Idra's new armsman, followed him in silence. On any other day Idra would have tried to imitate Maia, and asked the guard to walk at his side, and worked to set him at ease. But Idra had no ease left inside him to share with another.

All his reserves had been spent on surviving the day - the early arrival by airship and a short welcoming breakfast with his difficult if dear aunt Nemriän and her husband; lengthy and obsequious greetings from dignitaries of city and university; being shown to his apartment, with apologies. _We were told you wished to live as other students,_ _your Grace_ _, but still have presumed to furnish these rooms with the best we could_ -

And then to be toured meticulously all day around each and every scholar who would be his future tutors -

Under the fascinated, uneasy gazes of the students whom he hoped would become his friends -

He sat, abruptly, on a stone bench. Aizhar came to a halt nearby. "Your Grace, are you well?" The guard's eyes, black and shiny as his topknot, fixed closely on Idra's face.

"We thank you, Aizhar, we are well. We only sit for a time to enjoy the gardens." There was a tired note in his voice that he did not care for, and he swallowed, lifting his chin.

Indeed, the gardens were very pretty in this clear dusk, with the constellations beginning to peep forth. Winternight lay but a few weeks in the past, so there were no blooms or leaves, and the air was frosty, yet the gardens had evidently been designed with thought as to all seasons. The stones of the path twinkled back at the sky with quartz inclusions; marble statues glimmered through the stark bushes. Gaslights marked the main paths.

These charms Idra only noticed in passing. He could not make his mind settle on them, being too preoccupied with the events of the day. Deference and ceremony, of course, were hardly unfamiliar to him. But he had imagined a university to be different, to care little for rank. Had imagined that other students would care for learning more than for worldly matters. Had dreamed of slipping into a gentler life.

Had hoped that the pressures that had formed Idra Drazhar would soften enough for him to test the boundaries of skin and soul.

But even here, it seemed, he could not be other than he was.

“Archduke … “ Aizhar shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

“Yes?”

“We do not wish to be impertinent. But it is very cold, and we were given strict instructions as to your health.”

“From whom?”

“The Emperor. The Empress.” A small smile cracked Aizhar's face. “The Archduchesses.”

The thought of his sisters made Idra sigh with something that he identified, embarrassed, as homesickness. He should not feel like this, on merely his first day alone and away from his family – his immediate family, that was. His aunt Nemriän Imaran resided in Ashedro, and one of his cousins attended the university also. This familial connection had been one of the key arguments in allowing Idra to attend at all. He had _chosen_ this. He must see the course through.

A sudden sharp breeze skinned his face. Shivering, he rose. “Very well, Aizhar, let us return.”

He took a single step back up the gentle slope – and a slim figure in dark clothes shot out of an adjoining path, and knocked him over.

“ _Your Grace_!”

Before Idra had even gathered what was happening, Aizhar was there. The armsman wrenched away the figure, and laid a blade to its throat. Bewildered, Idra scrambled to his feet. He saw it was a girl that Aizhar held. Her face was moon-white with shock and her ears trembled. “Don't hurt her!” he ordered. “We think – we think that was an accident?”

“Yes. Yes, it was. We were running, we did not see – we apologise,” the girl babbled, motionless except for where a pulse beat against the sword. Her chin was very high, arching away from the threat. “We apologise, Prince – I mean Archduke - and beg that you let us pass.”

She knew him. That was unsurprising, after the way he had been paraded around Ashedro. But it did surprise him that there was a return of recognition in his mind. The particular line of nose, the arch of her brows – both familiar. Yet she wore simple, drab attire, unlike any ladies he might have met at court. Aristocratic girls who became students still dressed according to their rank, Idra's earlier tour had taught him. But if she was not a noblewoman, how could she look familiar to him? A glint of distant gaslight showed her eyes to be a dark, dark blue …

“Please.” Her voice shook. “We are so sorry, please - “ Little white clouds puffed from her mouth in the bitter air.

What a fool he was, to stare and do nothing! “Aizhar, release her. We hear your apology, but we do not accept it. There is no need. You did us no wrong.” He smiled, pleased. It was the sort of thing Maia might have said.

His guard only reluctantly released the girl, and in that moment as she lowered her chin he knew her. “Dach'osmin … Tethimin?”

She froze. “Your Grace.”

None of the Tethimin daughters had spent much time in the Untheileneise Court – not before their brother's conspiracy, certainly not after. But three years ago she had been introduced as a prospective bride to Maia, and afterwards brought to Idra's mother's rooms for an introduction to the feminine side of court. He had been there; they were of an age; he had paid attention. She had been even smaller and slimmer then, decked out in too many clothes and jewels, obviously ill at ease.

Mama had ignored her entirely.

“You are a student here?” It was a foolish question, because like him she wore her hair in the two plaits of a student scholar, but he found himself curiously unsure what else to say. He had been raised to the fluency of the court, to dance the social measure with unthinking grace, but here was the sister of a man who had tried to assassinate Maia -

And he was the son of a woman who had considered doing the same.

“A foolish question. Of course you are a student,” he said, over her murmur of agreement. “We are sorry to have delayed you on your way.” He bowed a little. “And we hope to meet you again - “

Before the platitude could finish emerging from his mouth, she shot past him and ducked under the bench where he had been seated. With her dark clothing, in the gathering twilight, she was to all intents and purposes invisible.

Idra shared a puzzled look with Aizhar. “Ah. Dach'osmin - ?”

He broke off as two more figures surprised him, emerging from the same path as the girl had lately taken. This approach too had gone unheard: Aizhar swung around, sword still unsheathed, with a hiss of frustration.

But the first figure Idra recognised instantly. “Cousin Nemala!”

His aunt Nemriän Imaran's son, his fellow student, the cousin nearest to his age – and who resembled, with the years increasingly, Idra's father. The student's plaits helped dispel the illusion, and in daylight his eyes were a different shade to those of the late Nemolis Drazhar, but still, for a moment in the twilight, Idra's heart clenched.

The expression was also one that Father would never have worn. Nemala looked like he had just swallowed a glass of lemon juice. “Idra,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Good evening to you.”

As boys they had been friendly enough, with Nemala – two years' Idra's junior – full of admiration for his imperial cousin. But Aunt Nemriän, though not kindling to open rebellion like Mama, had never liked Maia, nor Idra's support of his half-uncle, and Nemala had copied his mother's attitude. On the few occasions the Imada had visited the Untheileneise Court since Maia's accession, there had been only formality in evidence.

Aizhar sheathed his sword in a slow, pointed way. It sang softly down into the scabbard.

“We hope your journey to Ashedro was smooth,” said Nemala. His voice was a match for their wintry surroundings. He did not attempt to introduce his companion, an unusually burly elf who wore plaits and the usual sumptuous attire of an aristocratic student and a riveted stare.

“It was.” Those formal pronouns made Idra sad: it had not been so, once.

“And that you enjoy your time here in Ashedro. We trust your late arrival will not impede your studies.”

Usually, students arrived immediately following Winternight to begin the new academic year. Leeway had been granted for Idra, since he could not leave the Untheileneise Court until the matter of the succession had been settled. With Csethiro Zhasan safely delivered of a son a few days ago, Idra had, following the usual rites of birth and thanksgiving, been released. Both from his role as Prince of the Untheileneise Court, and – for a time – from the Untheileneise Court itself.

“We are sure we will manage, cousin. Thank you for your concern.” He had enjoyed the finest tutoring since he was of an age to hold a pencil. A few weeks' worth of lost study would not concern him. The issue foremost in his mind at that moment was why Dach'osmin Tethimin had felt it necessary to hide beneath the bench.

“And how is the health of Csethiro Zhasan?” Nemala exhaled a slow white cloud, then smiled. “Our mother received news that her confinement and delivery were smooth, but Edrehasivar's letter was unkindly lacking in detail.”

“Indeed, she endured it stoutly, thank the merciful goddesses,” said Idra. Why did Nemala shift so restlessly from foot to foot? If he didn't want to talk to Idra, Idra would be more than happy for them to part ways … “We spoke to her briefly at the baby's First Rite and she was most well.”

“Do they discuss names?”

“It seems likely, but we were not privy to their discussions. We expect to hear the announcement after the traditional month, like the rest of the family.”

“You are not then so close to Edrehasivar after all,” said Nemala, rather smugly. He crossed his arms.

Idra raised his eyebrows. Perhaps this was another bridge Maia might have been able to build, but Idra felt too indignant to try, especially in front of outsiders. It was a pointed, unwelcoming rudeness from Nemala, not to introduce his companion – who, in a matching rudeness, continued to stare at Idra like he was a fairground attraction. Idra said, stiffly, “We are very happy with our relationship with him, we thank you, cousin. He has ever been most kind. But the naming of a child is _always_ the business of father and mother. Even for emperors and their wives.”

“And do you think your happy relationship will fade now that you are not his heir?”

Had his cousin always been this obnoxious and Idra impervious, or had adolescence done him a terrible turn? Surely this was not _just_ dislike of Idra's loyalty to Maia? Idra took a careful breath. “We do not think,” he said, “that our relationship with him is purely dependent on our political connection. We are very happy to call him both friend and kinsman. We believe he feels the same way.”

Nemala laughed. “A deception of necessity, no doubt, since it took Csethiro so long to concieve - “

“Csethiro Zhasan.”

“What?”

“It is most impolite to refer to her by first name alone,” said Idra flatly. “She is the reigning empress. Call her Csethiro Zhasan. Or Ethuverazhid Zhasan, if you want to be _very_ respectful,” he added, with a flash of mockery.

For a moment he thought his cousin would say something furious, or treasonous, or at least vicious – but after a flexing of his face from glare to snarl, he said, “Well. Let us not argue. We welcome you to our university, cousin. But it is cold. We do not wish to keep you from your rooms.”

Did his eyes flick from side to side? Why did his fur-gloved hands move in restless fists?

Idra thought of Dach'osmin Tethimin beneath the bench – who had seemed so very anxious even once released from Aizhar's grasp – and let his stance relax. “We have no intention of returning just yet. The air is so pleasant at this time of night.”

That won him two blinks of astonishment, though Nemala managed to camouflage his expression quickly. Idra let his smile include Nemala's unknown friend. “As we are sure you understand, dach'osmers – enjoying the gardens as you are yourselves. We do not wish to keep you.”

Nemala's own phrase, turned back on him, but with a great deal more power behind it by virtue of his rank. It was effective. After a long, frowning moment, Nemala gave up and left without so much as a bow. His companion scuttled after him, glancing backwards occasionally.

Idra watched to make sure they were well gone, before turning to the bench. “Dach'osmin?”

She crawled out. Her pale face had acquired a smudge, and her ears drooped. “We are sorry - “

“You have said that too many times, Dach'osmin,” he said gently. “Dach'osmer Imar and his companion – unknown to us – are no friends of yours, we presume?”

She rose to her feet, head bowed, dusting off her skirts. But she said nothing. She did not need to.

A daughter of an extirpated house, a girl at a university: either would be an unhappy burden to carry, but both? Idra knew he had been greatly sheltered by Maia in recent years, but still he knew something of what it was to be shadowed by a relative's sins. He had tried not to wonder how many students had stared at him that day because of his rank, and how many because of his history. “We know that you took oath to M – to Edrahasivar VII Zhas in person when you reached adulthood.”

Her mouth twisted. “And how many noble girls of sixteen are usually obliged to do so?” She seemed to huddle deeper into her jacket. “You will forgive us, Archduke, but we must return to our rooms. The women's hall has a stricter hour of curfew than the men's hall.”

He thought of Nemala and company, still roaming the gardens. “Then will you allow us to escort you?” He used the plural pronoun, with an indication of the hand to waiting, expressionless Aizhar.

Something in her carriage relaxed. “Oh. That would be generous.”

He wondered what sort of unpleasantness she feared from her pursuers, and fell in beside her at a polite distance as she began walking quickly and with certainty. “You know these paths well, Dach'osmin.”

“We like the gardens. They remind us of our childhood home.”

“Where were you raised?”

She smiled fleetingly, and all at once looked much more like the girl he remembered, shy and gentle, not wary and sharp. “To the south of here, in the hills, halfway to the Tetara. It was a little house – by the standards of our family, that is.” Her voice softened. “You would not know of it. It was covered with flowers, and set by a little river whose name you would not know, either. We swam and rowed in the summer, and skated in the winter. The first time we remember seeing a city was for the celebration of our sister Ulevïan's nuptials.”

From those nuptials, Idra's grandfather and father and uncles had not returned. Sometimes it was still such an immediate pain. On other occasions it seemed to belong to another life. Today he thought only that Ulevïan had wed the prince of Thu-Athamar, and since the fall of the Tethimada had housed her three younger sisters. Maia had spoken in praise of Orchenis and his proud, hard loyalty: Idra wondered if it had been a pleasant new home or not for the lost Tethimin girls.

He noticed, even in the twilight, a sudden blush staining her cheeks and drooping ears. “We should n-not have mentioned,” she stammered. “We, we should not … inappropriate … memories ... “

He tried to brush away her awkwardness, redirecting the conversation. “After such a rural life you are most brave to enter a university, then.” In more than one way.

“The gardens were a lure.” Her smile had flickered out. She looked at her feet. She was covering the distance much more swiftly than most ladies of Idra's acquaintance: neither he, nor the following Aizhar, needed to slow their stride at all. Again his thoughts turned to Nemala. He and the dachos'min had been here for the better part of a month already. What small torments might he and his friend have inflicted on a vulnerable girl?

“Your sisters are all well, we hope.” He had met Ulevïan once, even shyer and gentler than her sister here, and the younger girls never.

“They are.”

He wanted to coax that smile from her again. “What is your particular passion, if we may ask?”

“Passion?”

“We think of our aunt the Archduchess,” he explained. “And her love for the stars. From her discussion, we gather it takes a powerful love for a particular subject to lure a girl to a university, against so much social disapproval.”

Her ears went up. “We are not a good scholar.” Her tone was defiant. “The world interests us, but the promise of learning did not lure us here.”

Neither had it lured him. Attending the University of Ashedro had required much argument, even with Maia. Imperial sons did not, in general, attend university. Particularly those so close to the line of succession. Idra's lure had been the prospect of a world, even if only for the student's two years, beyond the Untheileneise Court.

“May we inquire as to your motives?” Was it rude to ask? He tried to think of how Maia might handle the conversation. “Please know that we don't insist on an answer. We ask from a spirit of friendship.”

And part of him, which once had been trained to wear the Ethuverazhid Mura, winced. _Friendship_ should never be a thing so rashly implied, suggested, proposed. Especially not to one with an even more troubled family history than his own.

Her words tumbled awkwardly as she replied. “Even … even with our great dowry, the prospects for marriage are poor. We thought – we hoped – that more time between us and our brother's actions … between us and our father's execution … might improve matters. And time must be occupied.”

“Nemala Imar, then, we presume not to be your suitor.”

“ _Suitor?”_ She loosed a horrified giggle, then clapped a hand across her mouth.

He grinned. “Too late – I heard thee.”

Her ears went pink as sunset.

“That is,” he corrected himself hastily, embarrassed, “we heard you.”

They had reached the edge of the gardens now. Gaslights proliferated here, as tamed wilderness gave way to courtyards and halls. Scholars and servants passed back and forth, wrapped up warmly and moving swiftly. Idra thought he recognised this quarter of the university, but was not certain: his lengthy tour had been quite bewildering.

“We will proceed alone from this point, your Grace, but we thank you greatly for your kindness,” said Paru Tethimin. Her high colour was fading, and she offered him another shy smile.

“You consider yourself safe now, Dach'osmin?”

For several breaths she made no reply. Then, “There are people, and lights. But mostly we do not think you wish to be seen with us. You are Drazhada. We are Tethimada.” Her mouth twisted. “Or would be, if House Tethimada yet lived. Good night.” She curtsied – and then darted away. Idra checked his instinct to follow, and instead watched until she passed out of sight around one of the halls.

Night had truly fallen now, and the cold was gripping deeper beneath his inadequate jacket. “Aizhar, we pray that you know the way back to our rooms.”

“Of course, Archduke.”

For once his guard led the way. As Idra walked, his mind revolved the problem of Nemala. Innocents should never carry the sins of their family. Dach'osmin Paru Tethimin should not walk in fear.

He would have to find out more.


	2. A Morning Lecture

The following morning he rose at an hour that seemed unconscionably early, long before winter's sunrise, in order to attend his first lecture. He didn't even need to be shaken awake: the river of nerves in his stomach did that job for him.

One edocharis had accompanied him to Ashedro, a tall, plump, silent youth called Panet. Panet and Aizhar comprised the totality of his household, now, and it was both liberating and strange. A student had need of few clothes compared to an archduke, but neither could he fully cast off the archduke and be wholly the student: hence, an edocharis to take care of his personal needs. There was also a full detachment of the Untheileneise Court guard assisting the university's security force, of course, but these were under instructions to remain separate from Idra's daily life.

Though none of the trappings mattered, he thought while Panet dressed him, if the outside world continued to see only the archduke.

“ _Some Notes on the Recent State of Research about the Concept of Astronomy in the Barbarians of the North”_ was to start at exactly eight o'clock, according to Idra's timetable. He had two very good reasons to arrive there on time. It was his first lecture; and it was being given by his aunt Vedero, who was spending a month at Ashedro studying in its library.

Idra wondered if she was overwhelmed by special treatment, too, or if her age and firmness of character had allowed her to forge her own path more easily than Idra. When he slipped into the benches of the lecture hall, Aizhar silent at his side, he saw that she had not attempted to present like the daughter of an emperor: brown, brown and brown was her attire, and not a jewel upon her. She gave Idra a tiny nod when he entered, but otherwise paid him no attention.

He looked around with interest. Would Dach'osmin Tethimin be attending? Or Nemala?

With only two minutes left until the hour, the hall was crowded. Idra and Aizhar were the only ones with any elbow-space. Many students sat in the aisles – no, _slept_ in the aisles. They huddled with their heads propped against walls or benches, books clasped loosely in their laps, other students stepping around them blithely.

Such sleepers, Idra thought, looked more approachable than the students on the nearest benches, clustering away from him, whispering, glancing. What, not even one of them wanted to curry favour, or fawn over their imperial cuckoo? He looked down, and arranged his writing materials on the desk.

“Scholarship must have been a last resort, after husband-hunting failed - ”

No mistaking that voice. Nemala had entered the hall, accompanied by his muscular friend from the previous night, and was strolling casually down through the thicket of sleepers. People fell silent in a bubble around him, allowing his clear voice to carry more than it should have done. Nemala's comments curled like snakes, implying and mocking without ever resorting to names.

Idra forced his fists to uncurl, and worked to keep his face tranquil, as he watched Nemala and friend clear seats in a section to one side of the lecture hall and dispose themselves comfortably.

Just as Vedero rapped the podium for attention and began to speak, Idra finally spotted Paru Tethimin. She sat directly in front of Nemala.

 _No_. Idra immediately inverted his thought. It was not for Paru to be the actor in that situation, but the acted upon. Rather, Nemala had seated himself directly behind Paru.

“This lecture is intended to provide you with a summary of the current state of Ethuvereise research regarding the Nazhmorhathveras and their mythological approach to astronomy,” said Vedero.

 _Nazhmorhathveras lecture_ , Idra scrawled hastily across his sheet of paper. _By_ ~~ _aunt_~~ _Archduchess Vedero_. A great scratching began to fill the hall as even the sleeping students woke and began to write.

“The state of war currently existing in the north creates some difficulty in conducting expeditions of pure intellectual intent, and causes scholars to rely too greatly on anecdotes from military sources, contaminated by passage through their minds, which have not been cultivated to rational contemplation.”

Aizhar went absolutely rigid. Idra might have smiled, if he hadn't been so involved in writing – Leilis had rarely obliged him to take notes ...

“ … their very name implies their strong relationship to the sky, since _morhath_ – a word once in use in our language, you may like to know – is the central part of the construction of “Nazhmorhathveras”.” Vedero paused. Thanks be to the gods and the goddesses, thought Idra, and jotted _sky, morhath, names have meaning_. His fountain pen blotched badly at the word _names_.

After this Vedero diverted into several minutes of discussing the etymology of _Nazhmorhathveras_ , and Idra felt it was tangential enough to the topic that surely he didn't have to take notes, and thought instead about what the northern campaigns might be like. If he hadn't won his way to the university, a more traditional occupation for a restless archduke was to enjoy a brief spell in the military. He did not think it would have suited him.

“ … complex mythology relating to the stars,” said Vedero, and Idra hastily assembled his attention again. “Their constellations are rarely the same as ours. While it is common to regard the constellations as obvious and fixed, different cultures actually see different patterns and meanings.” She paused again. This time Idra happened to be glancing her way, and he saw that there was a tiny frown on her face. She was not looking at her notes. He followed the line of her gaze and saw it settled on Nemala, or at least on that area of the room … but his view was too obscured by a tall student to tell what had caught her attention.

When she began speaking again she described so many Nazhmorhathvereise constellations and which constellations of the Ethuveraz corresponded with them, partly or wholly, that Idra gave up. Surely he could find this material in a book, with no need to strain his hand and memory now?

When Vedero's pause next came, he had managed to shift himself along a few inches, so that the tall student no longer blocked his view.

Nemala and his friend were evidently whispering to each other, but there was no obvious sign of any malice being committed against Paru, who was curled tightly over her notebook like a child learning to write. As if trying to get as far from Nemala as possible. Suddenly she flinched violently. Had Nemala breathed some barb at her? Idra stared, straining his ears. He wished he could cross the hall and by his presence divert his cousin's malice, but that would call down the attention – and wonder, and whispering – of the entire room.

“ … worth noting that Barizheise constellations also do not correspond exactly to those of the elf-lands. Three goblin universities have recently funded … ”

 _Barizhan different from Ethuveraz,_ Idra wrote absent-mindedly. His cousin was not taking any notes at all.

With his attention unproductively shattered between the intellectual and the immediate, Idra found it a _very_ long two hours.

Idra tried to reach Paru when the lecture ended, but even though he parted the crowds like a keel in a river, he attained her position only to find her - and his cousin - long gone. Doubting his ability to track them through the campus, even with Aizhar's assistance, he went to his aunt. "What is Nemala doing to her?"

She shrugged, tidying her notes. "Childish things. He is only fifteen."

"You would not look so concerned for childish things."

"He is not Drazhada, but he is near to it. His actions have import."

Vedero had been a fascinating, delightful aunt when he was little; growing more remote as he grew up. She was still a favourite with his sisters, finding it easier to relate to smaller children. He wished for some of that closeness back, so he could be open with her. "We think Nemala is being unkind to Dach'osmin Tethimin," he said carefully. "He and his friend.”

“Yeret Nelenar,” Vedero supplied. “Grandson of the great historian Hea Nelenar.”

Of course Nemala would choose a friend with status to match, but not outclass, his own. “We wonder if you have seen anything specific, aunt, in these weeks you have been in Ashedro and we have not..."

"We do not pay as close attention to students as you seem to believe, unless they are disruptive in our lectures." She looked past him at the queue of other students waiting for a moment's attention.

Idra sighed. "Thank you, Archduchess," he said, and left.

His timetable then gave him two hours of physical education (for males only) before he was granted time to eat luncheon. Overwhelmed and already tired, he returned to his rooms, where Panet would be waiting with food. An Archduke could not risk eating in the Refectory with the rest; and he didn't care to ask to take lunch with Vedero, or Nemala and his aunt, or the arch-chancellor of the university.

Lurking at the entrance to his rooms was Nemala's friend Yeret. The young elf, standing in sulky respose with his arms crossed, did not bow but gave Idra an uncomfortably expressionless stare. His presence gave warning of what was indoors: Nemala, sprawled across a chair.

The table was covered with dishes, so Idra waved away his edocharis: “We can serve ourselves, thank you.” Since his cousin was here, he decided, he might as well try to pry some information from him about Dach'osmin Tethimin. Aizhar took a post in the room's corner.

The spread of food got a very disdainful look from Nemala, though he still took a morsel to nibble. “Pathetic,” he said. “For all your fine words about Edrehasivar still being attentive, he has not given you a household worthy of your rank.”

“We are a student.” Idra took a mouthful of egg-and-broth soup. “We do not need luxury.”

“Luxury is not a need. Luxury is a necessity."

“Did you enjoy our aunt's lecture today?” Idra asked, thinking his cousin's comment unanswerable and thus attempting a conversational turn in the direction he wished.

Nemala spun a glass in his fingers, and shrugged. The weak winter light coming through the window emphasised the colour of his eyes, helping to dispel the illusion of Father … “We knew its content already. Do you not know us to be a genius, cousin?”

It was a source of aggravation to Idra that this assertion was true. Nemala was only fifteen, yet a student already, even though it was customary for the Imada's eldest son to spend his first adult years in the military. Brilliant and of high birth: his dislike of Idra had been established for some years now, but perhaps it was newly deepened to resentment, a Drazhada archduke outshining the Imada heir on the territory that should have been his own …

Idra's wandering thoughts once more allowed Nemala to take control of the conversation. “We are not here to banter with you, cousin, we are here on duty. Can you row?”

“Row.”

“A boat.”

“We have not done so since childhood, but we believe we remember the principle.” And the fun. Visits to that great house by the river had been ever delightful, with Grandpapa Idra who taught his namesake to respect the river and Grandmama Zharo who always carried sweets and fruits just for her grandchildren. It had been one of the rare places where Mama had relaxed and been, Idra thought with hindsight, truly happy. He remembered her chasing Papa through the water-meadow, laughing as wildy as Ino or Mireän … With an effort he pulled his thoughts from the past. “Why do you enquire?”

“We are to be partners in the Dawn Race, a few days hence. It has been arranged by our mother, otherwise we assure you we would have chosen to partner with one of our friends.”

Idra laid down his spoon. “A race?” he asked, with some doubt.

“Our mother felt it appropriate: we are the son of the Imada, you are the first Archduke to attend the University of Ashedro for some centuries. The race – for new students only, you understand, by long tradition – begins at dawn several miles up-river and is to the Great Bridge in the centre of the city. It should not take as much as an hour. We will steer; you will row.”

Knowing his aunt, Idra did not think there was going to be much leeway in the matter. “We are not sure we have the strength to row so far,” he said, fighting fate.

“There are strong currents and rapids to assist you.” Nemala rose, waving a careless hand. “Meet me at dawn tomorrow at the university boat-houses and we will practise a little.”

And before Idra could think of a way to introduce the subject of Paru Tethimin, his cousin was gone.

Aizhar stepped forward. “A race! We do not like this, Archduke. It does not seem safe.”

“You may follow by horse onshore, if you wish,” Idra said, already wishing the day was over and he could go to bed. Problems never came singly. “It is a political gesture, we believe. It cannot be avoided.”

There was still over half an hour before his next lecture. He gulped down the last of his broth in a way that would have made Mama shriek in horror, abandoned the rest of the dishes with some regret, and went off to seek Paru.


	3. In the Cold

He terrified the wits out of the door-matron on duty at the women's hall of residence, whose eyes flicked from archduke to guardsman while she barely managed to choke out the information that no, the dach'osmin had not signed into the building since she left it that morning.

He tried the Great Library, the Imada Library, and was about to try the Fountain Courtyard – a common gathering place, so he'd been informed the day before – when a thought struck him. He turned his steps, faithfully followed by Aizhar, towards the university gardens.

“Archduke – the time … ” said the guardsman.

“We are aware,” murmured Idra, increasing his pace. He was desperately regretting not confronting Nemala on the subject of Paru while they had been private together. His cousin had thrown him entirely off balance by bringing up the race. Rowing! With Nemala!

In the gardens he paused and reflected on his conversation with Dach'osmin Tethimin, and then took a path that gently sloped down to the Maratha. She had mentioned a childhood by a river. These gardens spread a long way along the water, but if he could find a vantage point …

“Archduke,” said Aizhar as they arrived at the river. “It lacks but five minutes to the hour. You will be missed in your lecture. And if you are not there, the University Guard and the detachment of Untheileneise Guards may – that is - “

“They may have hysterics,” said Idra, stepping lithely onto a bench that overlooked the choppy surface of the Maratha. The wind raked his hair into disarray. “It will take far more than five minutes to return to the main campus as it is, Aizhar, so we may as well spend a little time here. No one is likely to report our absence immediately, are they? We are no longer Prince.”

“You are still Archduke, and the Prince is only a handful of days old.”

The tiny baby had held Idra's thumb tightly on the occasion of their introduction. His sisters had done a similar thing. An infant instinct, it seemed. But unlike on first meeting Ino and Mireän, Idra's pleased feelings at greeting his newest cousin had been alloyed with sadness. This tiny creature, white-haired and brown-skinned, yawning and squirming, would someday wear the Ethuverazhid Mura, which at present had the significant advantage of size. How could it be right for Idra to celebrate a birth that freed him while entrapping the new life?

A particularly fierce gust of wind made him stumble on his perch, disrupting his thoughts and letting him notice what his eyes had been seeing for some moments: a figure perched on the branch of a willow some few hundred yards away. The branch protruded over the river, swinging so low that Paru Tethimin could kick at the wavelets with her heels.

Idra leapt down and ran along the riverside path. Like all the paths it was brushed free of snow. Sleet began to spatter down from an increasingly leaden sky. He crunched his feet more heavily into the gravel than he might otherwise have done, to alert the dach'osmin to his presence, not wanting to startle her into falling. Even here close to the bank, the current seemed to flow quickly: too fast for any frost to form.

By the time he arrived, she had manouvered to sit astride the branch, facing the bank. Her face was white and pink with wind and cold, damp hair plastered to it in strands. She clutched her cloak tightly at the front with bare hands. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, Dach'osmin.” Ignoring Aizhar's yelp of alarm, Idra stepped lightly onto the branch and took a few steps along it. It was broad and textured, and his boots had a good tread, but still he didn't quite dare walk further. Spray from the river splashed up around his feet, combining with the rain for a surface slickness.

“Why?”

He thought for a moment, trying to phrase his thoughts without seeming patronising or pressuring. “Our conversation yesterday was intriguing, and we wished to continue certain aspects of it.”

Her ears twitched. “Archduke, as we said yesterday, we do not believe you want to be seen with us. We are not proper for you to know.”

“You may _believe_ as you wish, Dach'osmin, but _we_ have no objection to being seen in your company. And what do you mean by proper?” He knew, of course – he could hardly not understand the courtly and political layers of meaning to that word: and he also knew that Mama would agree with the dach'osmin. That Csethiro would agree. That even Maia might concur, however doubtfully.

Either Paru's thoughts had run in tandem with his, or his face was more open than he thought. “You know perfectly well, Archduke. Why persist in an acquaintance that cannot end productively?”

She used the word _acquaintance_ , he noted. Not the more intimate word _friendship_ , that he had so loosely used yesterday, and yet which he still scarcely regretted.

“A good question,” he admitted. He wanted to sit down, to speak to her more equally instead of looming, but didn't care for the idea of soaking his legs and behind on the wood. He was aware of Aizhar fidgeting at his back, and gave way to that silent pressure. “May we escort you back to the campus, Dach'osmin Tethimin? You must also have lectures to attend, and if we walk speedily we will not be so _very_ late.”

“We heard the clock-tower chiming the hour some time ago.” Unexpectedly she smiled, though in a hesistant way. “But perhaps we can return in time for the _subsequent_ lecture.”

With greater care than elegance she stood. She was a few yards away, but still Idra stretched out his hand. “No,” she said decisively, “if we overbalance we do not wish to take you with us!”

Idra found his other hand taken by Aizhar. “Let us assist you back onto solid ground, Archduke,” said the guard, and whether it was plea or order, Idra allowed himself to be returned to the path. Paru followed deftly, arms outstretched for balance, cloak flapping like a great confused wing in her wake.

Once on the path she set off briskly. Idra hurried to catch her, pulling up his jacket's hood against the weather. The sleet had softened to a light, cold rain. “What did you think of the morning's lecture?” he inquired. Partly he really was curious to know her thoughts. Partly he was wondering how to bring up the subject of Nemala Imar.

“Your aunt is an excellent scholar.”

“So we gather. We fear our note-taking was inadequate, but you seemed to write assiduously.” Despite what had been at her back.

There was a pause, before - “Do you wish to see our notes?” she asked, with extreme primness and enunciation of the formal intonations.

What? “No!” He stopped in his tracks. Merciful goddesses, he had only sought some way into a discussion of - “No, we promise you. No.” He felt his face and ears flame with embarrassment. “We can do our own work, dach'osmin.”

She wore a doubtful expression. Idra swallowed. Uttered a silent prayer to Cstheio Caireizhasan for wisdom. Abandoned caution. “Dach'osmin, please forgive us our clumsy speech. It was not our intention. We sought to … open a conversation with you on the subject of our cousin's behaviour.”  
  
Immediately she began to walk again, head bowed and shoulders hunched. Idra and Aizhar hurried after her. “We discussed this yesterday,” she said, so quietly she could barely be heard.

“Forgive me, but that discussion was hardly sufficient, particularly after we observed his attitude towards you today. This has been an ongoing matter since the beginning of term, we presume. It cannot be acceptable.”

“To whom? To _us_?” She made a gesture. “Archduke, your cousin will one day be the Marquess Imel. If, merciful goddesses forfend, the Emperor and the Prince and yourself were all to die, he is the eldest male with a link to the blood of the Drazhada. His behaviour is perforce acceptable!”

“Power does not legitimise atrocity - ”

“He despises our family history. That is not _atrocity_.”

Idra took a few conscious breaths, like Maia had once taught him to do in difficult circumstances, to find calm. He thought his way through her words with all the logic that Leilis had ever imparted. “Dach'osmin, we spoke in thoughtless exaggeration. Atrocity was too strong a word. But you run from him. Your body speaks of fear when you and he sit in proximity. And he was whispering – he and his friend. We do not know what they said, or what precisely has taught you to fear their presence. But power does not legitimise _unpleasantness._ ”

She swung to face him. Her face was coated in water, and he did not think it all rain. It caught at his heart. “Please, Archduke, this is – this is not something you can mend – it springs from a hatred of what was done by our father and our brother – it is understandable - ”

Her voice stuttered to a stop, one hand pressed to her chest. Her knees buckled and she sat right down on the gravel.

Heart speeding with horror, Idra forgot the weather and the cold and sat right down in front of her, prompting a truncated exclamation of despair from Aizhar. “Dach'osmin Paru Tethimin, _never_ should the innocent bear the sins of the guilty! My mother, Sheveän Drazharan, Princess of the Untheileneise Court, sought to depose my uncle, Edrehasivar VII Drazhar. For that has she been placed in exile for the term of her natural life.” He found his voice shaking, could not even it out. “She did it in my name, and I wanted no part of it.”

Wet eyes locked on his. He reached out, and took her cold bare hands into his gloved ones.

“Maia protected me and my sisters. His kindness has been great, giving me the space to understand that her actions are not my burden to carry. If any treat me as they might her, despite the truth of the matter being widely known, then they act unjustly. And I may pursue justice.”

“You're an archduke,” she breathed. “You are in a position to … pursue justice.”

“Thou art a free citizen of these lands. Art in a position to deserve justice.”

Her smile made him glad, small and hesitant though it was. “You sound bloodthirsty, Archduke.”

“In truth, sometimes I feel so.” He wasn't sure if she had even noticed his descent into informality, but he did not feel like reverting just yet. Here in the rain, his legs more painful by the moment with the bite of gravel, Aizhar hovering anxiously behind them – it seemed a small intimate world where the usual barriers of society were weakened.

“But what can I do?”

Idra was absurdly pleased to hear the informal first person from her lips. “Couldst speak to - “

“No.” Her hands shivered in his grip. “Oh, no. Noble talk of justice, but – I wish not to be mocked for speaking out. For not enduring … ”

“Stoicism has its place; this is not it.”

“Thou speakst in solid certainties that have no place here.” Her voice fractured like ice in spring, but there was a stubbornness behind it. “How can I change the thoughts of another? I may perhaps seek help to stop their actions, but that will not change their mind, and I will see in their face every day that they still hate me, and more, that they think me _weak_. Pride is all that remains to me.”

It was a chain of reasoning at once convincing, tragic and flawed. He wondered if his sisters, when they were old enough to enter adult society, would reason themselves down the same path, enduring suspicion and mockery with pride and silence. Largely still living in the Alcethmeret, they were a thousand times more sheltered than he had been in the turbulent time following Maia's accession, but when the time came … Except that the situation was so different. Mama had sought to depose; Idra and his sisters were still Drazhada, still under the shelter of the Emperor's favour and family. Whatever slights and stares they suffered could be nothing compared to Paru, daughter of an extirpated house whose lords had achieved imperial assassination.

“Thou art not weak,” he said finally. “Nor wilt thou be weak an thou tell the authorities of the university of thy experience of … harassment.”

“Even if I can find the resolution to defy the dach'osmer's intentions, dost think the arch-chancellor would? The university owes much to the Imada.”

“I think that the arch-chancellor would be even more reluctant to displease an archduke.”

She did not reply for a little time. He clung tightly to her hands, his tethering point in the rain and the cold, working through his surprise at his own words. His inadvertent offer of friendship last night was qualitatively different from this fresh offer of help and alliance. This offer had sprung almost as inadvertently. And once more he could not regret the words. She seemed to him to need people on her side more than anyone he had ever met, even Maia, even himself.

“Shall we not stand again?” he asked gently. “Thy clothing will be soaked.”

Aizhar swooped in to help them to their feet. “When Panet sees your trousers … ” he muttered, and, “what will the Archduchesses say if you have caught a cold?”, almost too quiet to be heard. Paru looked surprised, and Idra found himself spending the remainder of the walk out of the gardens telling her about Ino and Mireän and the long list of things they had told him to do (or not) once he was living away from the Alcethmeret.

They slipped into the correct lecture room just as the professor began to speak: soaked to the skin, Paru wearing a peaceful expression as she fished for a damp notebook in the pockets of her cloak, and Idra still a little frustrated. The particulars of Nemala's actions were still unrevealed. But at least he had uncovered the topic.

Guards turned up halfway through the lecture in a jangling panic, only to stumble to a confused and relieved halt at the sight of Idra. Aizhar went to speak to them, while the professor scowled and talked more loudly. Idra watched absently, forgetting to take notes. His gaze drifted from the urgent low-voiced military discussion to Paru's neat handwriting. There was a huge smear of ink across the cover of her notebook. It looked like a whole inkwell had flooded across it.

He doubted she would so clumsy as to do that to her own work.


	4. Dawn and Dark

The university boat-houses on a winter dawn seemed the source of the frosty mist clinging sulkily to the ground. Idra huddled in layers of fur and thick wool, staring miserably as some servants of Nemala's held a long, thin boat steady in the current by shore. Nemala was already at the tiller. “Well, cousin? Embark!”

“We do truly mistrust this,” muttered Aizhar. “A boat! What could be more perilous?”

“An airship,” replied Idra, and went forward resolutely, boarding with careful balance, to take his place at the oars. His muscles ached just looking at them, though they seemed lighter and more slender than the ones he remembered from his boyhood endeavours.

“Hold them so - ” Nemala leaned forward and changed his grasp. “There. It will do. Release the boat!” This to the servants, and just like that they were unleashed from the land, the current snatching them away into the grey light.

“Don't drop the oars!”

“Does it look as if we have?”

“Is your skill with politics this adept?”

The position of oarsman and pilot locked them facing each other. “When is the race, cousin?” Idra asked, through gritted teeth, hauling at the oars. A mix of morning mist and sweat was dampening his face. “You failed to specify.”

“Tomorrow.”

“We have no chance of winning.” He used the plural pronoun, slow and deliberate, then switched to the singular construction - “We cannot remaster this skill in one session today!”

“You will do your best, we are sure.” Nemala swung the tiller with apparent ease, navigating them through the eddies of the water. Over his shoulder Idra could see Aizhar running along the riverbank, pale face turned attentively to them.

“You have no ambition to win?”

“Think you that any other boat will dare outstrip ours?”

Idra stopped rowing. “Cousin, that is - !” He flailed for a word.

Apparently his thought had been transparent. “Why the shock? We don't ask them to do it. We are sure they will do it for fear of their Imada heir and Drazhada Archduke. We shall take the gold, and then take a late breakfast with my parents, and it will be just as it should be.”

“We might as well not race at all, Nemala.”

“Put your back into the oars, Idra.” His cousin's eyes glinted in the slowly-brightening light. “We must go at least three lengths before we turn back.”

Lengths were clearly a riverine term. For the sake of his own morale, Idra did not enquire how they might compare to miles. Grimly he began the rhythm of the oars once more, calling on old memories. His muscles remembered the pattern, and he was fit enough. His regular duels with Csethiro – until she fell pregnant, when he began to practise with the Guard – had kept his arms strong. But different activities required different muscles, and he had the feeling he would struggle to lift a pen later today.

He decided that Nemala deserved to be as uncomfortable as him. “Why do you and your staring Nelenada friend persecute Dach'osmin Tethimin?”

“Who?”

There was a glint in his cousin's eye that did not serve to soften Idra's feelings. “The eldest sister-in-law of Prince Orchenis,” he specified in clear, bitten-off words.

“Oh, Dach'osmin Clunetheran! For the Tethimada are no more: therefore should she not more properly go by her brother-in-law's name, since he has been so kind as to house the disgraced girls? An astonishing choice, given he had already to endure the shame of a Tethimin wife.”

Idra gave up on the oars for a time. “The name of Tethimin will become extinct when the girls marry. Why deny them until then the acknowledgement of their heritage? House Tethimada has great and honourable parts to its history as well as terrible things. Like every House. Drazhada, for instance. Or Imada.”

Finally his cousin was stung from his placid pulpit of mockery. His ears stiffened as his face tightened. “House Imada has never assassinated an emperor!”

“Surely a nobleman of your intellect has heard of the Imadeise Conspiracy?” Idra smiled benignly.

“That was in the time of Belthelema IX, and no one _died_!”

“And in some distant future people will say, _oh, the Tethimadeise affair! Now, was that the reign of Edrehasivar VII or_ _one of the Varenechibels_?”

“You are disrespectful.”

“We are adopting a lively style of debate. Look to your tiller, cousin.” Once more Idra slid the oars into the water. Aizhar was still pacing them on the bank. Had they done their lengths yet? He hoped so. He did not think Nemala would remain routed long. “We appear to have drifted from the point. What are you doing to the lady, and why?” In his voice he put every ounce of power he could command, gained from years of managing his sisters, years of training in rhetoric and debate from Leilis.

“Nothing serious,” said Nemala flatly. “Only small reminders of her position. We do not know why you concern yourself with her. You shame the Drazhada.”

“We do not. Her position is pitiable, and the actions of you and Yeret Nelenar are unbefitting persons of your rank and connections.” Besides which such actions were wrong, but that was a line of attack which Idra did not think would prosper.

“You are offensive. It is not your business to criticise us.” Nemala yanked the tiller around. Suddenly they were heading for shore. Idra was not unwilling, and he rowed steadily while keeping his eyes fixed on Nemala's face. Was that faint flush shame or fury? Idra feared the latter.

“Cousin - “

“Do not call us that. It is a relationship with no personal meaning.”

Bumping against the frost-hard bank, they scrambled out into an area that appeared to hold servants' quarters for the university: they hadn't yet reached the city. The boat drifted away downstream. Idra trusted that Nemala would handle the consequences of the loss, and turned to the waiting Aizhar with relief. “Breakfast time, I think.”

“Yes, Archduke.”

They left a silent Nemala behind. That was a conversation still unfinished, but at least it had been begun.

Idra spent the rest of the day trailing Paru as closely as Ino had once trailed him, when she had been learning to walk. The only exception was when he endured his first appointment with his personal tutor, a fussy old man who appeared too overpowered by having a Drazhada in his office to actually discuss academics. Idra left him as soon as possible, and liberated Paru from a huddle of laughing boys. There was mud at the knees of her skirt. “We tripped,” she said, and moved away sharply.

In his mind, Idra corrected her statement: _we were tripped._

It was becoming increasingly clear to him that while Nemala might be Paru's primary problem, he was far from being the only person to view her as an object of contempt. Perhaps they would have taken such a position independently; more likely he had enabled them, the Imada heir's behaviour being clearly worthy of imitation. Either way, Idra observed a lot of startled or disappointed looks before students sheared away from Paru, scared off by his presence.

He also observed how she flinched at their approach, and relaxed only slowly after their departure.

Paru herself spent most of the day blushing and huddling into her cloak, and whispering to Idra that he was exposing himself to astonishment and derision. He thought it was not extreme as that, and stayed at her side. In the rare moments she relaxed, she seemed increasingly happy in his company. That was one satisfaction; the other, of equal power, was Nemala's impotent glare, and the trailing Yeret's evident disappointment.

In the gaps between lectures, and over the course of luncheon in a refectory populated by staring students, he did his best to provide a flow of cheerful conversation. Someone else might have been more conscious of the privilege of hearing about the new Prince's first days, but Paru absorbed it quietly and then retaliated with tales about her youngest sister's babyhood. After that it was an easy step to comparing anecdotes about handling younger sisters, although Paru's largely revolved around safeguarding her wardrobe whilst Idra could have written a scholarly thesis on the problem of eavesdropping. And from there to other memories, of childhood and youth. He mentioned his unsatisfactory rowing practice; she told him of a time her boat had capsized when she'd been learning to steer. They both remembered the delight of turning thirteen and their first Winternight dance. And oh, the frustrations of memorising poetry in the schoolroom, to recite to critical tutors!

At day's end she flatly refused to share his supper in his rooms, going scarlet at the thought, and on this point he acquiesced, though he worried to think of her sitting exposed in the refectory. But much as he desired to protect and defend, he knew that if his attention continued into the privacy of the evening, it might create damage of a very different kind. So he gave his farewells, and bore Aizhar off to his rooms.

These were warm and awash with delicious smells. Panet was just finishing laying the table. “Let us wash your hands, Archduke,” he exclaimed, staring at Idra's ink-spotted fingers.

“We could do it ourself,” said Idra cheerfully, “if you have laid out hot water, as we suspect you have.”

“In the bedroom, of course!” Panet did not allow himself to be shaken off, and trailed Idra into the sumptuously-appointed bedroom, where they got into each other's ways amid hand-washing and outerwear-removal. Idra enjoyed the bustle. It marked the end of a surprisingly satisfactory day. To wash a little, and exchange his heavy outerwear for a more casual indoor robe – the just rewards of labour, he decided, smiling, as he returned to the main room.

Aizhar sprawled motionless on the floor, head bleeding.

Before Idra could even exclaim, while his heart was still frozen in a great cold lurch, a sweet-smelling cloth was pressed across his whole face and the world washed and oozed into darkness.

*

Consciousness.

Pain.

The two were linked entirely. No awareness without agony, agony the only link to awareness.

Cold, after a while. Cold, cold, cold.

The pain dwindled – no, intensified – no, concentrated. In his head, and arms, and wrists.

He tried to open his eyes. Did he fail, or was there darkness outside his head as well as within?

Why was it so cold?

A sense of self came, too. _I am Idra Drazhar._ _Prince, no, Archduke._ _I am_ _in the Alcethmeret, no, I am in_ _the University of Ashedro …_

But _here_ was not his rooms, or a lecture hall -

Here was cold and dark.

Like a flame summons a moth, pain accelerated him towards full life. The sensation in his head was already fading, a mix of dull roaring and spasmodic jabbing behind his eyes. In his wrists – his limbs seemed to be stretched in a way they should not be. He tried to move; froze; choked on a sob. Another attempt, another sob, but this time he ascertained that there was rope wrapping like a choking weed around his wrists, fastening them to the bar of wood against which his shoulders also pressed. His arms were extended out in a straight line, aching with the pinioning.

He made another attempt at movement, but his feet seemed to be lashed to another bar of wood which now he could feel running up the back of his legs, his spine, against the curve of his skull. There were even more ropes twined around his waist, binding him in place.

He could not seem to _think_. What had happened, why, what was _happening._ A fuzz of a memory was beginning in his head, like a hollow attracting rivulets of water, but he couldn't see the full shape of it yet.He wrenched frantically at his arms again, now liking the bite of pain in strained muscles, the bite that told him he was alive. There was no yield in the ropes. His hands were useless -

He remembered washing his hands, and Panet, and Aizhar on the floor -

Someone had attacked … someone had kidnapped …

And he was crucified above the Maratha. He was sure. Understanding came with a horrifying rush, and he knew the roar beneath his feet was not a delusion of his hurting head, and his cold skin sensed a crisp river breeze through his thin indoor clothing.

Frantically he wrenched his wrists. The ropes remained tight as chains. Around him there was no light, not even stars. Was this not the river, had he died and been condemned to some terrible darkness where even Cstheio Caireizhasan would not see him? _It wasn't me, it was Mama –_ No, he didn't think such things, his head was disordered. Merciful goddesses, crucifixion had been a punishment of the ancient world, before the Conqueror's unification. A punishment for treason, if what he remembered of Leilis's teaching was accurate – _But I am no traitor!_

He tried to shout. But there was a ball of – cloth? - in his mouth, and now he knew that, he also understood why there was darkness, his benumbed skin finally interpreting the clues: there was a blindfold across his eyes.

The stars were still there.

Somewhere.

Who else was there? Did anyone stand nearby, or sit in a boat, or – did they watch, did they laugh, did they finger blades? Who might it be?Who would do this? Whom had he hurt or offended or -

Goddesses, goddesses, he was splayed open, pinned out like a fur for curing! His ears twisted and strained for sounds, but only the hiss of water filled them. In that dark voiceless lost space, he almost wished for an enemy's sneer. To orient himself – who had done this, and why? And becausethen he would not be _alone._

Had Maia been glad to see a face he knew, that night?

Idra discovered he was crying, soaking the blindfold with tears and his gag with snot and spit. He felt the liquids crust to frost. Convulsions of fearful frustration ran through him, barely controlled, wrenching his body again and again against the ropes – if only he had his eyes, or his voice, or some organ beyond his ears to link him to the world – this terrible lost feeling, like when the news of Father's death – or when he'd been awoken in the dark and brought to Maia and Mama – _dear goddesses, let your blessings bloom within me, let me be free: –_ Beneath him the river ran heedless, and he flailed like a landed fish, directionless, helpless.

Later, though by much or little he could not have said, he hung motionless in the rushing darkness, empty. 


	5. Trust

There was a sloshing noise, too ungraceful to have been made by the river. Idra's head jerked up, twisting his aching neck. His stomach twisted, confused. His captor? A saviour? In the darkness, they seemed one and the same. _Let me not be alone!_

 _Slosh._ “Oh, no!”

He had thought himself finished with tears.

“I'm coming, I – oh, gracious goddesses, what have they done to thee?”

Paru's approaching voice felt like sunlight against his ears, bringing him back into the fold of the real world.

“Beastly, horrible – but I have a knife. Why dost thee not reply?”

A hand touched his foot – even through his shoe he sensed it, a benison, a gift. “Thou'rt gagged?” she whispered. Her voice was in the vicinity of his knees. “Cruelty!”

In another time he might have laughed. The gag was the least of his troubles.

“I'm sorry for the liberty,” she said, with a practical sort of decorum, and then – was she _climbing_ him? One arm, hooked around his leg. A series of grunts. A hand yanking heavily at the ropes around his waist. His feet, he could tell, rested against a slight platform, and in a surprisingly short span of time she had wedged her toes onto it too, and was pressed up against him, one hand gripping tightly onto the bonds at his midsection, the other fumbling at the knot of his gag. He wished she would do the blindfold first. How he yearned to see again.

When it was gone, his mouth felt empty. Hollow. Waiting. He dragged in a free breath and it was glorious.

Her hand made short work of his blindfold. He blinked against what seemed a bonfire of light, and presently her face swam into view, haloed by cloud-dustedstars and a sliver of moon. “I thank thee,” he said. His voice was not his own, hoarse and cracking. _“I thank thee._ ”

She manouvered around him, reaching for his right wrist with her blade. She began to saw against the rope, brow wrinkled in concentration, one stiff ear just beside Idra's face.

“How - ?” he asked, and couldn't say more.

“I stayed late at the library and, returning to the women's hall, I saw – some people – waiting by the door. So I walked around campus a little, hoping that they would go away… When I passed thy rooms I sawsomebodycarrying a great bundle, like a carpet – if I'd only realised immediately.” She paused, panting a little, still working away at the rope. “I thought of robbers, I went indoors, and thy edocharis and nohecharis, they were on the floor, they were unconscious - “

“Why,” he said. “Why did thee enter?”

She said nothing until that wrist was free. He lowered his arm, whimpering at the pain of too-long stretched muscles being allowed movement, at the hot prickle of blood rushing back to cramped areas. “For the same reason I followed that carpet-like bundle, up here, upriver … ” she whispered, her head bowed so he saw only the gleam of her hair and its central parting. “Because thou hast been a friend to me when thoushould not have been. I could not abandon a friend … ”

He cradled his right arm against him in silence, trying to suppress sobs, while she wriggled into a new position and freed his left wrist.

“It will be awkward getting thee down tidily,” she said. “If I cut the ropes at thy waist next, dost think thoucouldst swivel a little, and hold onto the post, while I free thy feet? Otherwise I fear thou wilt topple into the river.”

He flexed his arms cautiously. His shoulders and biceps seemed to have the worst of the pain, but it was a hot pain rather than a stiff pain now, and he could move more easily. “Yes, I think so,” he said.

In a remarkably short amount of time he slid untidily down into the Maratha, only ankle-deep but the cold so shocking his breath briefly stopped. “Hold onto me,” said Paru, slinging his arm around her shoulders. “Quickly, to the bank. We are not far out.”

They made it up the muddy, pebbly slope to dry land with speed if not elegance. In the dimness all Idra saw was a great featureless expanse. “This is a bleachfield at the edge of university property,” Paru said, “scarce used in the winter, I think, but I saw a hut for the bleaching-women not far that way. It shall have a hearth, maybe with fuel.”

He would have gone with her anywhere, into the north or over the ocean. When they reached the little hut there was a single blanket and a jug of frost-flecked water. These Paru gave to him before kneeling to work at the hearth, with wood and kindling, in the almost-complete darkness. He could not seem to stop shivering, though he was glad of the icy water to soothe his dry mouth and throat.

“I have not done this for years,” Paru said after a little while, worry infusing her voice. He could hear scrapes and rustles, but could not summon an image of what they meant. Had he ever bothered to observe how the servants lit the fires?

“Where did thou learn?” In the midst of his protectiveness, he had failed to realise her strength … “To make fire, I mean.”

“In childhood. The nursery-maid taught us, one winter when the winds blew so strongly down the chimneys that the fires kept dying … ah!”

“Did it work?” The darkness seemed as profound as ever; only her silhouette stood out, faintly.

“The kindling has caught.”

He had been unaware how long a fire took to build, too. What fools Archdukes were. He sat on the cold, packed-earth floor, blanket draped around his shoulders, arms splayed gentle and loose across his lap in order to place the least strain on the muscles.

 _Who_ , he thought. And _why_. And _how_. He was probably in shock, because he couldn't think beyond those questions at all.

After some minutes, eddying orange light began to fill the room. Paru came across to him and sat at his side, not quite touching. “Share my blanket,” he said.

“No, thank you. I have my winter cloak, and thou only thy indoor clothes.”

He should protest, but he couldn't. The cold roar of the river was still in his ears.

“Didst thou see who they were… the people who took me?”

“No. I'm sorry.”

“Were my servants badly hurt?”

“Unconscious.” Her voice wavered. “I don't know more than that. I should have summoned help, but all I could think of was the time Eshevis took Puris – our brother – out hunting. Puris didn't like to hunt, but ... one dawn I saw them go, Puris kicking and protesting. I was the only one who saw, and I said nothing because I knew it would not avail … he died that day. He fell from his horse during the chase. Eshevis said only cowards fell.”

Idra unfurled one of his arms, and took her hand. Cold as their hands were, he liked the connection. “I am so sorry.”

“So am I.”

Gradually, his shivers began to abate and his feet dry. The small flames, dancing in their nest of wood, emitted a faint heat, bringing the room to well above freezing, though still far from warm. Idra watched the fire until his eyes and head felt aglow with it.

 _Who._ And _why_. And _how_.

Whoever it was must have stolen in while he and Panet were in the bedroom fussing with washwater and clothes. Knocked out Aizhar. Then a sleeping fume in a cloth to his face – he hadn't seen them: had they lurked behind the door?

“Didst say my edocharis was also struck unconscious?”

“Yes.”

So: poor Panet, dealt with in the way of the soldier. Then the somnolent bundle of archduke was discreetly carried away, brought a few miles upriver, crucified in the shallows of the river – _why_?

And _who._

He tried not to think of Nemala, who had been so angry, so convinced of his own power.

“Dost think thou art strong enough to walk, yet?” Paru asked softly. “Or I could leave thee, to get help – art surely safe here?”

“Please don't leave!” he blurted, then clamped his mouth shut, embarrassed. The cry had come from some deeply wounded place.

For a moment she was silent, and then, very gently, she pulled his head down to lie against her shoulder. Their hands were still intertwined. “I shan't leave,” she said.

He closed his eyes. Even his eyelids were trembling. For a time the archduke crumbled away, and Idra Drazhar floated alone in the backwash of shock and pain and fury, anchored by the quiet breathing and growing warmth beside him.

Some time later, reformed out of peace into his own self, he reluctantly raised his head. “What hour is it?”

“Not long until dawn, I think. It took a long time to find thee, after I lost the, ah, the kidnapper at the entrance of the bleachfield. And we have been here some hours.”

He rubbed at his face. His arms felt nearly normal again, at least physically. In his mind he didn't ever think he would forget the feeling of his body being forced open like that. “This morning it's the race. I am to partner with Nemala.”

Her breath caught. She moved to face him better, eyes wide. “Archduke, no!”

“Hast earned the right to call me Idra, I think.”

“Don't distract me from the point.” Three years ago in his Mama's rooms he had thought Paru's face a softer, irresolute version of her brother's. Either she had changed or his perceptions were at fault, for from her face radiated determination, even in the shadows of the hut. “Art in no fit condition to race.”

“Dach'osmin Tethimin, I am correct in thinking that the race starts upriver from here, yes? Yes. Well, let us imagine that thou had rescued me not. What would all the racers have seen as they passed this bleachfield by?”

She looked at him. Then she said, “Someone set thee up for humiliation.”

“I suspect my cousin. We argued.” Idra couldn't bring himself to say more than that. Prince he might no longer be, but he would be Drazhada until death, and thus an abduction would be an act of treason. Even beyond Idra's own distress, he knew how upset Maia would be.

“Dach'osmer Imar?” Paru looked horrified. “Mean-spirited and vicious, yes, but surely even he wouldn't - ! but now I do see why thou wish'st to race. To humiliate whoever it was, in turn.”

For the first time that night he managed a smile. “Indeed, dach'osmin.”

“I think thou hast earned the right to call me Paru,” she said, self-consciously echoing, a tinge of colour running up her throat and cheeks and ears.

“Earned? Merciful goddesses, what have I done for thee that could ever compare to what thou hast done for me?”

“Don't weigh acts of friendship like a merchant.” Her voice was soft.

That word again. And she was right. This was not the Untheileneise Court. His smile came easier this time. “Then, as my friend, wilt accompany me to the race's starting point?”

*

They reached the starting point after a long cold walk, just as around thirty boats were being organised into a row by a barge with a senior academic and a loudspeaker. There was only a boat-length between each of them: a long-legged athlete might have gone from bank to bank by jumping.

Dawn Race it might be, but dawn was a nebulous rather than specific time. Darkness had given way to a diffuse grey light, and Idra was glad he had kept the blanket – with plans to send it back, with thanks – because the air seemed to be even colder now than in the reaches of the night. But fortunately there was no mist, and he easily espied Nemala, out on the river, sharing his boat with the burly figure of Yeret.

“Archduke!” Two scholars wrapped in fur hurried to him, observing his indoor clothing and blanket with palpable bewilderment. “But where is your guard?”

“Awaiting us at the finish line,” Idra said. “Where is our boat?” He used the plural pronoun, which caused some surprise.

“We thought – that is to say, your cousin Dach'osmer Imar informed us - “ The senior of the two scholars looked bewildered. “He has another partner.”

“But of course.” Idra gestured to Paru. “This is _our_ rowing-partner.” She just managed to disguise her twitch.

“A _female_ student?” said the scholar, mouth curling.

“This race is open to all students, we believe.” He raised one haughty eyebrow, a trick he had laboriously copied in his younger years from Father. “Where is our boat?” This time he consciously articulated every imperial nuance of accent he could muster. It produced him a boat very rapidly, the scholars fussing over it and muttering about its seat not being upholstered.

“Idra, I have not rowed for years!” Paru whispered.

  
“I'll row. The tiller is thine.”

“But thy arms - ”

“I'll manage. If thou canst. I didn't mean to spring this on thee suddenly, but it seemed the perfect solution. If thou wouldst rather not - ” He trailed off, desperately hoping for her aid, but trying not to force her hand.

“Of course I can manage,” she said. There was a dignity in her voice; it reminded him not to underestimate her. “But I don't think we'll win.”

Idra thought of how his cousin had boasted that no one would dare outstrip him. “It remains to be seen,” he said. “Some things … can have goals other than winning.”

They got into the boat and Idra manouvered them a place near the end of the line. He wondered if Nemala had seen them join. A nasty surprise now or a nasty surprise later … he could not decide which he preferred.

“Idra, row, _row!_ ” Paru's shriek shattered his thoughts. “ _Go_!”

The trumpet had been blown.

 _Csaivo, Lady of the Rivers, be with us both._ Idra put his back into the oars.

He had not realised that rowing would reawaken the aches in his arms. Only an ache now, but some miles downriver he suspected it would be agony. He rolled his shoulders, trying to find a better position from which to pull.

“Art well?” Paru's eyes flicked between him and the river.

“I will be.”

“Oars in!”

“What - ?” Too late he saw another boat darting towards them, and nearly lost his righthand oar when it raked past them with inches to spare, its passage throwing up spray and waves. “Is that allowed?” Idra exclaimed, struggling to get back into rhythm.

“Oars out! Yes: dost know nothing about this? There are very few rules. Oars in!”

He was quicker this time.

“Oars out! There is a curve and narrowing of the river soon.” She grinned suddenly. Stray splashes of water stuck her hair to her face. “I have not practised this race, like some, but I have walked the paths by the river often these past weeks. If we can catch the current correctly, we'll regain lost speed. Where the water foams white, thou must be very quick with the oars when I say, or we'll go adrift on the rocks!”

This was nothing compared to the boating he'd done on a docile river, heavily supervised, as a child. He grinned back at her. “Yes, Captain.”

After a few minutes he was in a good rhythm, and when they launched around the Maratha's curve, he could tell they were improving. They were ahead of several boats; he could not see how many were ahead of them in turn. They lost speed again on the next calm stretch, overtaken by boats whose oarsmen hadn't spent half the night crucified. He tried to count ...

“Idra, don't!” exclaimed Paru. “We lose time every time thou lookst over thy shoulder. Oars in!”

He glanced briefly, wondering if it was rocks or another boat, and only got them in just in time to avoid a clump of drifting tree trunks, washed into the Maratha by some winter storm.

“Idra, shut thine eyes.”

“My eyes?” He looked at her, bewildered.

“Yes.” She sounded slightly astonished at herself, eyes wide and ears quivering, but her voice was determined. “Close thine eyes, and be guided by my judgement. Let a Drazhada trust a Tethimin again.”

_Let a Drazhada trust a Tethimin again._

Something in his heart burned. He closed his eyes.

After that, he seemed to lose himself in the race. The heave and slip of the oars, Paru's quick instructions, the hiss of the water beneath the keel – a softer and more pliant noise than that he'd been crucified above. The glide and roll of the boat over smooth water and turbulent. In his arms the muscles spasmed and burned, but he used them all the same, biting his lip as distraction. That tiny sharp pain was a spark, and he was a spark, dancing across the water, not to be extinguished … _Oars in! Oars out!_ _Slow here, let the river do the work – now we need speed! Oars in! Oars out!_

Beyond his eyelids the world grew brighter as sunrise approached, but he did not look. This was nothing like being blindfolded. This was a gift and a trust.

“Idra! Idra! Stop! We've finished! Open thine eyes!”

He obeyed, blinking against the weak winter sunlight. Paru's face glowed with joy, and suddenly he could hear the noise of a watching crowd, as if opening his eyes had opened all his senses. “Idra, we've come fourth!” She released her tiller. “How are thine arms?”

 _Fourth_. Good, considering. _Very_ good. He sank down, leaning on his oars. “They could be better,” he said, unable to stop smiling. “Did my cousin win?” Or had his arrogance been misplaced?

She scanned their surroundings: the choppy grey waters, the arch of the Great Bridge, the falling paper tokens from delighted spectators – and the other boats. “No,” she said, sounding genuinely surprised. “No … I can't see his boat at all … ”

“But I can,” said Idra suddenly, sitting up with a wince. Why did his back ache so much too? “Look, he's coming in behind us – eighth or tenth position.” He watched Nemala's boat slide under the bridge, then turn and head straight for the jetty.

“Paru,” he said, “let's follow.”


	6. Truth

Consigning their boat to a university servant, Idra approached Nemala, who was being served a steaming hot cup of wine by an Imaran servant while talking in a violent undertone at Yeret.

“Wait here,” he told Paru, seating her gallantly on a bollard, “I'm concerned thou would attract even more attention.”

She nodded, and sat as neatly and upright as if she were in a ballroom.

A few more yards, and Idra tapped his cousin's shoulder. “We thought we were to be partners,” he said.

Nemala swung around. “Yes, and where by the darkness were you?” He looked incandescent. “We had to take Yeret here. First of all he treats a tiller like a whip, then he steers us into - “

Yeret was already sidling away.

“Someone abducted and crucified us over the Maratha last night,” said Idra, having decided that being away from the Untheileneise Court meant that his lifelong vassalship to subtlety was temporarily in complete abeyance. “Was it you?”

“ _What_?”

Idra repeated his question as politely as possible.

His cousin hurled the wine into the water with explosive force. “We presume you are _insane_ , cousin. We do not care for Edrehasivar, and so you think us a traitor? An inept one, to boot? Great goddesses, Idra - “ He lapsed, shocked, into informality. “I heard _graphic_ detailsof the Tethimadeise executions courtesy of my father, and I am _not_ a cursed _idiot!_ ”

At which juncture Panet and Aizhar and the entire detachment of the Untheileneise Guard turned up in a rushing gleam of swords and panic, terrifying the crowd, and Aizhar pointed his finger directly at Nemala's friend Yeret.

“Oh,” said Idra faintly, and wished Nemala hadn't decided to seize his arm in a paroxysm of horror and (Idra thought) wounded vanity at his poor choice of friend.

The Untheileneise Guard piled on top of Yeret like an anthill, whilst Panet and Aizhar – both sporting bruises and bandages – rushed to cluck over Idra: although in Aizhar's case the clucking came with an offer to commit revethvoran once another armsman had been obtained.

“ _No_ ,” said Idra. “Don't you dare!”

Yeret was yelling for all the interested spectators to hear that he loved the Emperor, that Idra could not be trusted, that Idra should have been relegated along with his mother, that Idra was a threat, and crucifixion was what the emperors of old used to do to traitors …

“What a _fool_ ,” croaked Nemala.

“I am so glad it was not thee.” Idra pried his cousin's fingers off his arm. “It would have broken Maia's heart.” Then, arms burning but with one good movement left in them, he punched his cousin on the chin. “That,” he gasped, as Nemala toppled back into the arms of his servant, “is for a certain lady, whom I am sure will receive no further attentions from thee. I hope thou wilt learn to be a better person in future.”

And, leaving Nemala to shock, he returned to Paru, rather hindered by Aizhar and Panet, who kept so close that they nearly tripped him, like cats.

There was a profoundly satisfied expression on Paru's face, like his sisters when they had just eaten two baskets of pastries. “He will not trouble me again,” she said, with a replete sigh. “Well, neither of them will. How hard did thou hit him?”

“Hard enough, I hope.” He sat cross-legged beside her. He wanted to lean against her legs, but didn't think that would be acceptable in public. How he ached, but how he was peaceful! He couldn't even bring himself to care about Yeret, the unexpectedness of it all. Thought would come later, along with questions, and Witnesses, and publicity, and perhaps fresh anger. Later he would write a letter to Maia (or ask Aunt Vedero to write in his stead, because his arms ached so much) begging to be allowed to stay: there could hardly be _another_ threat, and he'd made a friend, and she was a Tethimin, but Maia of all people would not be judgemental, and how was the baby?

“Wilt suffer less, comparatively, once it becomes known thee saved me,” he said absently, rubbing his eyes. Panet had been dispatched to find transport to convey Idra tenderly back to his rooms, and Aizhar was pacing in anxious loops around Paru and Idra.

“That is not why we did it.”

A reversion to formality. He straightened, looked at her closed face. “I know,” he said gently. “Did I thank thee yet?”

“Of course. Art a kind person.”

He yawned. He didn't think he was as kind as Maia, but that was a thought for another day. “Wilt tell me one day just what they did to thee? I still don't know.”

“No. Thou saw enough, anyway. I would rather forget it.” Her face opened again, a mix of distress and awkward smiling. “It wasn't very nice.”

“And if it does start again - ”

“I'll protest.” Now the smile had the uppermost hand. “After tonight … it made me think, being proud and enduring their pursuit … it was as if thou had not protested thy crucifixion. Pride is a complex thing. I must have my own pride, as well as Tethimin pride. I have started to feel angry.”

“Well-placed anger is useful,” said Idra, quoting a maxim of his father's, though Nemolis Drazhar had used it in a different way. Sheveän Drazharan and Paru Tethimin were very different beings.

Panet was returning, he saw, a hire carriage in his wake, both of them rather obstructed by the shouting untidiness of Untheileneise Guard and university staff and cityfolk, Yeret nearly forgotten amid jurisdictional arguments. Nemala had been reached by some armsmen of his own and was being tenderly taken away. Idra hoped his edocharis would reach them quickly. He had reached the end of his strength. Looking up at Paru, he thought she was tired too, although not as sore in body. The new sunlight picked bright glints from her dissolving plaits.

“Neither of us have a good idea about where we're going, do we?” he said.

“We're going back to the university for food, and warmth, and dry clothes, and bed.” She stopped. “That is, if thou wilt allow me to share your carriage. The women's hall isn't much out of thy way - “

“Aizhar will put thee in the carriage if dost not enter it thyself,” Idra promised. Aizhar said _yes_ very fiercely. “And I was speaking more generally. We were both here as an escape of sorts, were we not? We escaped our previous presents, but we did not escape our pasts … ”

“Now is not the time for reflection.” She touched his shoulder, fleeting, shy.

“Art quite right. And I have spent too often of late in reflection.” He took a deep breath. “Now is the time for thinking of the future. I may not know what it holds, but – I am excited to find out.” He smiled up at her. “A future with a friend is a good thing, I think.”

Her smile dawned huge and bright and wondering. “Oh, yes. A very good thing.”

In the light of that morning, the world was full of possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now it's no longer a spoiler to say ... this fic was written for the "crucifixion" square on my hc_bingo card (http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/). :)
> 
> Another end-note: it's never mentioned if Nemrian has children or not. Nemala is an OC from name to character. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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